


Solanaceae

by Walor



Series: Family of Nightshade [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Captivity, Extremely Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 01:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: Namir knows two, inherent truths. One, that he is a member of the League of Assassins, a position granted to him only by his master's benevolence. Two, that he has always been nothing more than a tool meant to be used and serve. Beyond that, his past is nothing more than muddy water too trivial to bother remembering.However, why this young, dark-haired American boy seems so keen to bother him with such unimportant information is beyond him. Even more curious, is why this boy is so hesitant to mention his own past.





	Solanaceae

“Again.”  
  
He cannot. It’s not a matter of stubbornness that keeps him lying on the bamboo mat, as his master seems to assume. His muscles simply refuse to move any longer, no matter how much his mind wills it to do so. Around him, dozens of men, a few women, all in gray silk tunics and pants continue their exercises. Their faces are flushed red, sweat pouring down their cheeks like rain, falling into the puddles beneath their bodies. They all move in unison, he is the only one who collapsed onto his stomach.  
  
They have been like this since morning, long before the sun rose over the highest peaks of the Himalayas when it was barely light enough to see one another in the dark. It had been beyond freezing when their master walked to the front of the room and told them to drop onto their bellies. It is mid-morning now, the sun shining bright above the mountain peaks, beating down on their backs. No one has stopped moving.  
  
Except for him.  
  
Their master walks around the length of the mat, right in the center of the compound’s open courtyard. He is near the back, on the far left side near the door that leads back inside, the shadow of his master’s right hand, a towering mountain of a man, has never once left him. The others pay him little attention but pause long enough to kiss the feet of their master when he walks by to stop in front of his collapsed form.  
  
He would have followed suit if moving were possible.  
  
“Namir,” his master says. “Get up.”  
  
Namir tries. He tries to push himself up onto his hands, but they will not heed him. Panting heavily, he tries again, fingers shaking as he crawls along the mat to heave himself up. The mat beneath his palms are bloody from torn open scabs barely healed after his punishment the night before. The moment they press against the mat, pain lances up his quaking arms and he is brought down to the floor, too sore to even curl into a protective ball.  
  
There’s a dissatisfied sigh above him. “Ubu, gather him up and bring him inside.”  
  
Namir clenches his teeth, pressing his nose into the mat, eyes burning hot with terrible shame.  
  
“You are still not strong enough, Namir, _ habibi.” _ _  
_ _  
_

* * *

The steam that clouds the room of the bathing pools nearly brings him to his knees. His entire body aches from his biceps right down to the beds of his fingernails. It is hardly unusual. There is not a day that goes by where his body does not ache any longer. It has been weeks since he’d been accepted and allowed to train in the courtyard with the other novices, _ ghuls _, and even now he struggles to keep up with their everlasting training. His punishment for his failure this morning was thirty lashes to his still-healing palms, the backs of his hands, and the bottoms of his feet. 

One for each ghul that he interrupted training for. When the last lash was struck their master dismissed the group and sent Namir away, to the cold, bottom step at the base of the mountain stripped down to only a simple loincloth. Then he was made to walk. 

No one was present to watch his ascent. Namir did not think to travel down to the waiting city below. He knows better than to try. Wouldn’t have even if he wanted to.

Tacky blood sticks to the stone tiles as he walks across it, the geyser warmed pools occasionally bubble up water to slick the way. Namir makes sure to step in those puddles even though it burns the half-forming scabs on his soles. 

It is evening now. The ghuls have already bathed and left for prayer and dinner. Namir will have to hope there are leftovers he can eat or he will go another day hungry. With how terribly his body aches it will be a feat to get down to the kitchen itself. Though going another day without eating anything, Namir may not even have enough energy to wake up for Fajr. 

The bath at the back of the room is small. It curves in the shape of a crescent moon around the base of a raised rocky pool. There are stone steps carved into the mountain rock beneath the steaming, blue water. Most of the other novices and assassins use the bigger pools in the center of the room. There they can talk and jeer with one another about training or missions. Namir prefers his own private space. It keeps him away from their occasional quips and ridicule. The respect they possess for one another does not extend to Namir. No one bothers to join him this deep in the bathing chambers.

Today, however, there is someone standing by his pool. 

Namir stops. His master stands at the edge of the water. A chair made of polished redwood with ivory painted engravings has been taken from the library; his master’s cloak rests, folded, on its cushions. On top of its emerald stitched cushions rests a silver tray filled with dates, pomegranates, candied almonds, apricots, and naan bread. Alongside it a porcelain teacup filled with what smells faintly like tea.

His mouth waters. He hasn't eaten in two days. Nothing, save for a discarded olive among the halls not even the rats would take. 

He does not move. Their master has his own personal bathing chamber higher in the compound where he, and his inner circle, the _ al-sayf, _the sword, rest their bodies. There is no reason for him to descend so far in the compound without purpose. Even then he would normally send someone else to do so.

Namir straightens up as best he can, head slightly bowed. Several minutes pass before his master speaks a word. 

“I didn't expect to see you for at least another hour. You're getting stronger.”

Namir snorts quietly. Not strong enough to withstand basic training like any other novice. If he were any other man, Ra’s would have had him thrown out or worse months ago. That knowledge burns him alive every passing hour he fails to complete the simplest of tasks.

His master clicks his tongue. “Don't be so hard on yourself. Their previous lives revolved around merciless training to protect the nations they once pledged too. You have no such background as my catamite.”

He adjusts, wobbling on his tender feet. “Master-”

A raised hand stops him. “I thought I told you to call me by my name.”

Namir purses his lips. To speak the master’s name is an honor not given out to anyone. Outsiders say it because they do not respect him. But within the compound, only the chosen members of _ Al-Sayf _ are allowed to do so. Namir is neither of those things as their master’s former bed warmer. 

Another several minutes pass before Namir can force himself to speak the name he should not. “Ra’s.”

Ra’s finally turns to look at him. Emerald eyes stern, frown on his unmarked face as he takes in the sorry sight of him. “Better.”

Raising a hand, Ra’s beckons Namir closer. A slight little crook of his finger, covered in golden rings glittering with rubies and diamonds. He walks quickly, ignoring the pain in his feet to heed the command. Only stops when Ra’s' knuckle brushes against the hair on his chest. 

Deliberately, Ra’s moves, hand skimming down around the curve of his defined pec. His fingers stop at the raised skin of his nipple, the golden metal balls on either side of it from piercings he received after being gifted to Ra’s years ago. Sucks in a shuddering breath when Ra’s takes the bud between his two fingers, thumb rolling over the entirety of it with a considering noise. The golden barbells are cold, like ice beneath his skin from his ascent in the freezing air. The sudden change in heat jolts a little noise from his lips and he bites them to silence any further.

At this, Ra’s glances up, back at his face and smiles. “You do not have to hold your tongue for me, Namir. Not any longer, now that we are alone.”  
  
It’s still difficult, to throw away the training and the rules he’s been given ever since he started joining the ghuls lessons in the courtyard. He’d been whipped mercilessly by his own instructor, one of Ra’s _ al-sayf, _ for gasping after an hour of holding himself up by the straining muscles of his pinkies. Another time, a yawn had earned him a bath of ice and salt until his skin had nearly blackened around his toes and fingers. He very nearly winces the moment he finally lets out a stuttering gasp.  
  
Ra’s smiles and draws his hand down, further and further with his nails skimming along the dips from his muscles. Stops, pads of his fingers resting on the skin just above the length of his cock. As tired as he is, it does not stop the little twitch as blood starts to rush through the skin there.  
  
“I’ve missed you, Namir, it has been too long since you accompanied me to my bed.”  
  
Slim, elegant fingers curl around his cock. Namir stiffens, stuttering out a light breath. Ra’s continues to draw them around, tracing the veins he finds, as well as teasing the sensitive skin of the head, nails tracing the tiny slit he finds. It’s incredibly hard not to collapse there. The building heat from the rushing blood under his skin and the steam from the pools make him light-headed. If he’s going to be honest, he feels rather ridiculous and embarrassed for being so weak in front of his master.  
  
The hand pulls away. His eyes flutter open, not remembering just when he shut them, to see Ra’s pointing to the pool. “Get in.”  
  
That’s the easiest order all day.  
  
Namir steps into the water, gasping lightly at the burn on his torn open feet that is there and gone again. A groan slips past his lips the moment his legs are submerged in warm water. Eyes fluttering shut, he sinks down onto the carved rock below the water, head leaning back against the lip of the pool. Muscles go lax almost instantaneously, uncurling and relaxing as the cold soreness slips away through the pores of his skin. For a second, he almost completely forgets about Ra’s' presence.  
  
And then the water splashes beside him.  
  
Ra’s slips into the water, still in his slacks and open dress shirt, the fabric turning translucent and sticking against the dark rise of his skin. Namir watches, mouth open eyes wide, as his master settles on the rock beside him as if nothing were the matter. He even smiles at Namir, bright green eyes glittering in quiet amusement.  
  
“I thought this would be more comfortable for you,” Ra’s leans to the side where the plate of fruit now sits on the ground. Takes the curved, decorative handle and drags it across the stone to the side of the pool. Those same clever fingers that were around his cock a moment before plucks one of the dates from the pile and holds it still. “Here.”  
  
Namir wets his lips. His stomach very nearly climbs out of his throat to reach the date with the sudden ravenous need that overcomes him. He glances at Ra’s one more time, bringing a hand out of the water to take the date.  
  
“Stop,” Namir does, arm frozen. “Not like that.”  
  
Eyebrows pinching together, Namir slowly lowers his hand back into the water. Ra’s adjusts himself, turning to face him, and beckoning him closer with his free hand. “Here.”  
  
Oh. Namir understands. A flush darkens his cheeks and he stands up, rising out of the water slightly. Takes one step forward before lowering himself down again, hiding his face as he settles on the rock between Ra’s spread legs, swallowing past the growing lump in his throat.  
  
A chuckle behind him makes his entire body shudder, something warm and tight forming a knot in his gut. A slim hand reaches over his shoulder, drops of warm water landing across his collarbone as the fingers come to rest on the curve of his throat. A moment later the fruity scent of a date before the textured skin presses to his lips.  
  
“Open,” Ra’s' lips graze his ear. Namir does. The date presses against his tongue, sweet and tart and perfect to his furious hunger. Barely manages to chew before he swallows, Ra’s' hand pressing tighter against his throat as he does. “What do you say, beloved?”  
  
_ Thank you. _ _  
_ _  
_

* * *

The taste of the tea is still heavy on his tongue. It’s floral, those seem to be the most common selections Ra’s favors, with a more subtle hint of spice beneath it all. The scent has perfumed the room, covering it in a delicate blanket that teases his nose with every stuttering inhale. Namir doesn’t remember ever having a tea-like the ones Ra’s shares with him, only that it’s a much-needed respite after the many hours of training. Now, if only he had gotten to finish it.

Beside him, scattered on the rocks is the plate of treats, half-finished. A few dates and apricots have rolled across the rocky floor and buried themselves between the crevices of the stones. Water from the pool consumed most of the leftover naan bread and a portion of it that stretches out along the floor has turned tea-colored where it meets the shattered glass of the cup. Even diluted from the water of the pools it’s still so strong in Namir’s nose.  
  
A particularly rough thrust of Ra’s' finger drags him from his thoughts.  
  
The scrape of a nail against his prostate has him arching off the stone floor, not too high. After a moment it becomes too hard to hold his position and he slumps back against the stone, one arm outstretched, fingers dipping in the tea-stained water. His other, held painfully high above his head, pinned down by a much stronger hand. Entire body loose and exhausted, there is nothing else he can do but lie there, trapped beneath his master’s powerful body.  
  
Another press inside him draws a moan, from his lips. A warm chuckle brushes against the shell of his ear.  
  
Ra’s nips along the veins in his neck and licks a trail up the tendons. He pauses long enough to press a deep kiss to Namir’s slack mouth and lick across his teeth. Namir tries desperately to kiss back, but his body is limp and ragged, he can barely manage a twitch in his fingers. His cock, in contrast, has no issue pressing against his stomach, leaking little white beads with every brush of Ra’s' lips.  
  
“Forgive me,” Ra’s draws back after a moment. His shirt’s been discarded ages ago, water dripping down the sharp creases of his muscular chest. Namir gazes up at him with half-lidded, desperate eyes. Jealousy simmers beneath the sprawling sea of lust inside him, envious of that strong, capable body. His own is soft, with definite curves at his hips and a lot bigger of a chest. It will take a lot more training to even get close enough to look like his master if he can even get that close to attaining al-sayf status among the league.  
  
“The way you look at me, Namir,” Ra’s preens, green eyes alight beneath the dark hair of his brows. “You’d think I had taken the place of the world’s sun.”  
  
_ It’s true, _ Namir thinks but cannot make his tongue move. _ I would have been nothing without you. _ _  
_ _  
_ Ra’s must see something. He smiles a little wider, and for a reward, he ducks his head. A warm mouth finds Namir’s sensitive nipple, teeth latching onto the nub. The moan that escapes his chest is startled and sharp, echoing across the stones. Ra’s moves closer to him, keeping his legs spread wide even as they shake and try to shut. When he tries Ra’s cruelly fingers his prostate with tiny pulses until Namir is shallowly panting, arousal building to that wonderful edge only to pull away and squeeze his cock painfully.  
  
Lapping over his nipple, tongue circling the skin with the press of teeth every so often draws a pitiful noise from Namir. “ _ Stop-” _ _  
_ _  
_ Ra’s doesn’t. If anything he bites down around it, hard enough to leave a bruise come morning. Namir arches his back and howls, free hand scraping across the stone. The scabs on his palms drag open and with it, the water mixes with bright, red blood. The pain is inconsequential in the face of Ra’s' assault on his body. It takes only several more seconds for his heart to pump harder, the pleasure in his body growing into a tidal wave that threatens to crest above his shaking body and swallow him whole.  
  
The fingers and warm mouth leave him, and he remains there, shuddering with denial. A whine falls from his mouth and his eyes flutter open. Above him, Ra’s looks somewhere else, above Namir, eyes dark and mouth pursed in a thin line.  
  
Panting, Namir slowly lowers his head to the ground and lets his eyes roll back. There, a few steps away, he sees the pointed toes of dark-colored high heels.  
  
“Well,” their owner clears her throat. “I did not mean to interrupt.”  
  
_ Talia. _ _  
_ _  
_ Though he cannot see her face, Namir’s body burns. The little hairs on his arm raise in sections, where her heavy gaze drags up and down along the lines of his body.  
  
Ra’s, after a moment’s pause, smiles. His fingers find Namir’s cock once more, skimming his nails along the ridges of the prominent veins they find. “Is this important or have you come to watch.”  
  
Namir sucks in a sharp breath as Ra’s' thumb presses against the slit of his cock, smearing the droplets of precum. Above him, Talia scoffs.  
  
“You know my feelings on this.”  
  
Ra’s laughs slightly. “For someone that wasn’t utilizing a great asset, I find it interesting that you have a problem with someone else doing so. Do not give me that look, Talia, I am not the one who called you down here to witness this. Speak what you want and then go.”  
  
“Very well, Lady Shiva has returned. She said the news she brought you was urgent, but, if you are so _ indisposed, _ I can take the message myself.”  
  
“That will not be necessary. I only need a moment longer.” Ra’s lets his gaze drop, a little smile on his face as he regards Namir. “Have Ubu collect Namir and bring him to my chambers for tonight. I am not finished congratulating him for his successful failure.”  
  
His voice tapers off into a growl, a hand suddenly clutching Namir’s cock firmly at the base. He gasps sharply as Ra’s descends on him with tsunami-like power, barely able to cry out in the face of such voracious hunger. He barely hears the light clicks of Talia’s heels across the stones before even that is drowned out by the force of his shout of release.  


* * *

There’s a thought that always comes to Jason as he drives the long, winding path up to Wayne Manor. Did anyone tell Bruce that the grounds that surround the castle-like estate don’t have to look like they came straight out of a Victorian-era gothic novel? To be frank, as much as Jason knew about landscaping, and that well of knowledge was extremely shallow, didn’t massive trees with finger-like branches that blocked out the sun go out of style at least one hundred years ago? That maybe he can ask the gardeners that drop by every other Tuesday to try planting some harmless-looking palm trees for a change of pace?  
  
That would be an excellent change. Go right along with the tacky leather batsuit.  
  
_ Don’t be such an ass, Todd, you’re trying to make an effort here. _ _  
_ _  
_ Has been, at least partially, for the last two and a half months he’s put roots back down in Gotham. Back when Dick was presumed dead, Bruce had amnesia, and the world wanted Robin dead in some shape or form. Which is ironic, considering how often a Robin seems to end up on the cold slab of a morgue table, and that’s just great. Didn’t realize everyone had to copy the worst part of his “life” in an effort to make their tenure in the superhero business a competition of who got fucked the worst.  
  
And, for the record, he still wins that every fucking time. So chew on that Damian.  
  
It’s about a quarter after five and the sun’s just gone down, leaving the sky a fiery mixture of red and orange to quickly darkening violet. Jason parks right in front of the roundabout road that circles around the massive fountain in the middle of the front garden. There’s a bit of a chill from a slow-blowing wind, so Jason buries his chin deeper into his jacket when he pops his helmet off.  
  
Even after all these years, the sudden burst of scent from the gravel to the nearby salty sea air of the manor’s back cliffside screams _ home _ to the very marrow of his bones. His body, the traitor, goes as far as to relax suddenly like he’s about to lie down in bed. _ Turncoat bitch. _ _  
_ _  
_ Jason waves to the cameras dotted along the mansion’s decorative spires and the archway. The door is locked, of course it is, but one hard knock-knock makes them spring open on their own.  
  
Inside is no one. Surprise, surprise. Jason steps inside and kicks the dirt off his shoes on the welcome mat.  
  
“You’re here early.” Dick’s voice comes from above him.  
  
Jason shrugs his shoulders and offers a nice little gesture to the hidden camera in the ventilation shaft. “I didn’t realize Gotham crime waited for the sun to go down before they started working. Also, I’m unemployed and legally dead. My days are rather open.”  
  
“This isn’t a bounty office.”  
  
“Oh, well, if you don’t need my help then I can go find some trouble on my own.” Jason glances back up at the camera. A moment passes and then sigh, loud and dramatic filters through the speaker.  
  
“I have something for you.”  
  
“That’s what I thought.”  
  
The manor on the inside is stuffy and warm, and Jason quickly loses his jacket, dropping it off in the grand living room on the back of a chair. The fireplace is roaring, spitting embers up into the chimney, and Jason saves himself by biting his tongue rather than asking if Bruce’s aversion to change is what kept him from installing central heating in the manor. He’d say no if he were home, and then Jason would point to the family portrait and clock’s frozen time and then he’d probably spend at least three months with a bat-shaped shadow hounding him.  
  
Speaking of, Jason sets the time on the clock and the door to the stairs swings open. That’s when the voices filter through. Mumbling, a little raised and tense. Jason grins to himself and starts walking down the stairs. Early his ass, looks like he’s just on time. 

The further he follows the stairs into the cave, Jason picks out whose voice is whose. Dick’s there, of course, loud and just barely containing that terrible temper of his. Likewise, he can hear Tim’s smooth cadence, but even that’s a little high, cutting off Dick at every turn. Makes Jason wish he came armed with popcorn, or at least some kind of candy.  
  
Bruce is absent, which is made certain when Jason reaches the bottom and sees the suit gone along with Damian’s Robin uniform. Excellent. Nearby Dick is half-way dressed in his own, kevlar Nightwing suit, while Tim sits at the computer, only in casual office wear. Both of them look like they haven’t gotten enough sleep. Per the norm in any case.  
  
Neither spares him a second glance, again normal, too distracted with one another to bother glancing at their new audience.  
  
“Forget it. Roland Desmond has been operating in Bludhaven long before he started extorting the city manager to overlook his apartments’ numerous building code violations. As far as we know the paralyzation he suffered as a result from Catalina has him going straight-”  
  
Dick snorts and Tim stops monologuing for one moment to shoot Dick an irritated glance. “What.”  
  
“The only Hail Mary come to Jesus moment Roland’s ever had was finding out casinos brought in more money than loan-sharking with apartment buildings.”  
  
“And, as far as you and I are both concerned, gambling is perfectly legal in New Jersey. There is no reason to start yanking Blockbuster’s chain just because he’s a jackass with no morals.”  
  
“Wrong,” Jason interrupts after a moment. “I think that’s more than enough to go knocking on Blockbuster’s door.”  
  
Dick brightens up considerably, as always when someone inevitably praises his very bad decisions. Tim, on the other hand, cocks a brow and sinks further into Bruce’s chair, hands folded over his lap. Jason knows Dick isn’t that stupid, but when it comes to being pig-headedly stubborn, Hell has yet to meet someone that’s got Grayson beat.  
  
“Jason,” Tim groans.  
  
“What? Considering Roland’s affinity for cutting corners just to save a penny, Dick I’d say you’re looking at countless hours behind a desk staring at Roland’s casino blueprints. How many does he have now? 8? That’s a lot of inspections you’re going to have to do.”  
  
Now there’s a little gleam of amusement in Tim’s dark eyes. Dick doesn’t look half as cocky as before, leaning back against the desk of the computer and rubbing his temples. There is nothing Jason likes more than stirring the pot. No matter the genuine effort he’s trying to make coming back into the family, a little chaos with his brothers is always on the top of his day’s to-do list. Dick, sometimes appreciative, this time gives Jason a little grim frown before he slips down to finish buckling his boots to his kevlar padding.  
  
“Is that the job you had in mind?” Jason says, not that the atmosphere has been completely ruined by his own hand. “Or did I walk all the way down here to find out you wanted to look at the architecture of all of Bludhaven’s eyesores.”  
  
“No,” Tim turns around, a little relieved. “We do have something for you. I can’t say you’re going to like what Bruce has in mind though.”  
  
“A mission from Bruce, huh? I guess that’s as good as any official welcome back party. Did he have Al bake a cake for the occasion too?”  
  
“If you don’t want to do it I’ll take over instead-”  
  
Jason cuts Tim off quick. “No thanks, Timmy. I got it handled. What is it?”  
  
Dick walks back over, geared up entirely with the exception of his domino mask. There’s a smile on his face, tempered only by worry as he glances at the computer and Jason. Not a fan of that look, if Jason’s going to be honest. The only time Dick ever looks like that is once in a blue moon, last time he saw it was when he was standing on the rooftop of Stevenson’s mall in upper Gotham about a month after his televised death. Had the gall to stand there all sheepish with his arms at his side, dumb smile on his face and say _ surprise. _ _  
_ _  
_ Now, of course, that smile also comes with a tentative hand on his shoulder and Jason gets to thinking that maybe Bruce isn’t exactly welcoming him back to the family at all.  
  
“About a week ago a Star Labs was broken into. Nothing was stolen, _ officially _ that is _ . _ Bruce did a run by yesterday morning. A vial from an experimental lot that tests the effects of mutated viruses had been replaced by a sugar-water mixture.” Which is just rich, that whoever had planned the heist had assumed a sugar-water mixture would have fooled a building full of scientists for as long as they planned it.  
  
“I assume you already tested the water sample?” Jason shakes off Dick’s hand. It’s a little bit of a stupid question to ask, but sometimes even the smartest men in Gotham need a bit of a reminder. Tim glances over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. Of course, they did.  
  
A few clicks of the keyboard, Tim pulls up a break down of the water sample run in house with the equipment in the cave. Most of the numbers Jason still doesn’t know. But there are several specific tells Jason lets his eyes roam over. For them, that’s the acidity of the water, the saline level, and the specific mycobacteria that were found present. There are numerous water sources in Gotham, but narrowing it down to a block makes it a lot easier than starting with the entire Eastern Seaboard.  
  
The results label it as freshwater with a pH of 7.5, which crosses out Gotham harbor at the very least. The mycobacteria are too general to make a positive id of any one location.  
  
Not surprising. But Tim doesn’t look completely defeated. “Something else?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tim swipes away the water data and pulls up another chart. This time Jason lets his eyes take in the enormity of the information, the calculated numbers along the side and, quietly, waits for Tim to deem it his turn to share whatever information he’s found.  
  
Which comes with a sigh when Tim comes to the conclusion that Jason will not ask. “There was food coloring used in order to change the color of the water, a specific brand of food coloring. It’s only carried in major supermarkets in Gotham. We cross-referenced the locations around Gotham and took the security up to a week before the break-in and fed it through the computer. It went ahead and marked every time someone’s face with a criminal record in Blackgate went through check out.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake when you said you had something for me, I thought it was on the streets. Not sitting behind the computer making a list of who’s door to knock on first.” What a waste of time. Evening, boys, just wondering if you happened to know where the missing biohazard went.  
  
Tim grits his teeth and shoves Jason away. “I already did that for you, and you’re welcome, by the way. And I didn’t have to look very far either.”  
  
Without even so much as a glance at the computer, Tim pulls up a series of files from one particular folder. R.S. When it opens Roman Sionis’ ugly mask takes up a majority of the screen. Alongside it is a frozen still from the checkout stand of a supermarket where two men in False Facer black stand in the bakery aisle, right in front of the rows of food coloring. The next picture shows one of the men, or what Jason logically assumes based on the figure’s build and clothing in the lobby of Star Labs. 

Jason clicks his tongue. Right. “I don’t know if you know this but Roman and I don’t exactly have the best history right now.”  
  
Murdering his lieutenants and taking his shipments of Kryptonite does tend to sour relationships after all. Every now and again Roman does him the honor of sending a death squad to some of Jason’s more obvious safe houses. As always, Jason is never home when they set off his explosive traps, but it’s reasonable to assume that they never come with the intention of a simple house warming gift. 

“And you’re the only one of us that can infiltrate his gang without setting off too many alarm bells.” Dick chimes in. “Jason we need you-”  
  
Dick stops. Stands up a little straighter and tenses. Tim, though he’s just in the corner of Jason’s eye at this point, goes pale and stiff as a rod. Jason supposes that if either of them were looking at him he must appear the same way. Eyes wide, standing just a little taller and leaning the slightest bit forward until he’s on the tips of his toes in his boots. The three of them are silent in the dark cave, not a single voiced word between them. But Jason hears it. He knows Dick and Tim can hear it too.  
  
The subtle change in the air. Around them the shadows darken and shift in unseen twists and turns, the light from the computer seems to dim on its own accord. Roman’s masked face glaring down at the three of them in its own silent wrath. Though he is hardly a nipping fly in comparison to the dangerous animal that’s found her way in through the back tunnels of the manor.  
  
It’s then sound finally comes. A soft click-click-click across the damp stones further in the cave, soft and measured. A moment later comes a beam of light around one crevice of rock and a slim body slips inside the grand lair of the Batcave.  
  
Jason’s always thought, out of all the people in the world, Talia al Ghul was probably the most underestimated woman in history. He remembers, not very often, but sometimes in the space of time where he lies awake at night on his bed, the little time he spent with her. Most of his interaction with Talia, aware that is, took place over phone calls or minute-long conversations at cafe tables during mid-afternoon. She’d order tea, hibiscus or Moroccan mint, and she’d take two sips or one, before vanishing as quickly as she appeared. Always spoke slowly, considerate of her words as Jason discussed what he had found out about the tutors she had sent him to.  
  
At first, he thought she was angrily bemused as to why he was killing the teachers she sent him. Then, arrogantly, he reasoned that she purposefully selected men with terrible sins to prepare him to kill the man that had wronged both of them. It would be such a fitting end to two people that had been rewarded for love with their own death. Jason’s had always been a little more literal than Talia’s.  
  
But he supposes Talia’s life as a woman innocent of her father’s shortcomings, young and intelligent, had been much more tragic of a loss considering the path she now walked.  
  
It was only after a year of dodging Bruce and then finally going back to the family that Jason really understood that Bruce was not Talia’s plan at all. That only after Jason came to find out that the men and women he had killed were former League of Assassins members did he understand. That her ambition and her goal extended far beyond Gotham’s city limits. And it was Jason’s own hubris in regards to Talia’s intelligence that she was able to use him so thoroughly.  
  
Talia now appears in the cave the same way as she did when Jason was her student. She is dressed in a button-down brown trench coat, dark, suede heels ruined from the lower caves’ damp rocks and pools. Beneath her jacket, Jason knows she carries a Caracal 9mm pistol attached to her waist that is mostly for show. She hardly ever needs to use it if someone gets close enough to threaten her.  
  
The only reason she stops walking is when Dick speaks. “Alright, that’s enough.”  
  
Even then it’s more of a pause than anything. She glances at Dick, dark green eyes flicking down to his hands then face. “I need your help.”  
  
“I need a lot of things,” Dick lets his body relax, minutely, giving him enough lax to shrug his shoulders. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to get them.”  
  
“Tell me what they are and I will get them for you,” Talia doesn’t bat an eye. “So long as you help me.”  
  
“See, I know you work with a lot of people that have the morals of a sewer rat, but when it comes to ill-gotten goods I have a bit of an issue.”  
  
The corner of Talia’s mouth twitches slightly. Maybe these two don’t know what that means but Jason has been around her long enough to recognize certain body tells. That and Dick’s brand of chattiness has never sat well with any of the Ghuls.  
  
Beside Damian.  
  
“What is it?” Jason says. If it’s anything terribly evil he can still say no.  
  
Talia looks at him the same way she does anyone in the family. His time in her care has never softened her stance, to anyone and anything Bruce seems to have laid claim to. “My father has stumbled across something of mine. I do not approve of the way he has decided to use it.”  
  
Now there are a lot of things that can mean. Maybe Ra’s found her diary of corporate underworld dealings. Maybe he’s stolen a nuclear bomb she originally robbed from Qurac. Cynicism at it’s finest.  
  
“You have a lot more standing with your father than any of us do. It would be easier for you to barter with him for it.” No surprise Tim doesn’t like the prospect of confronting Ra’s on Talia’s behalf. Jason doesn’t know much about Tim’s history with Ra’s only that Tim prefers to keep Nanda Parbat on his “never visit” vacation list.  
  
“My standing with my father often means very little. Unless I came with my son and beloved in chains he would not listen to my concerns in the matter.” Talia glares at Tim. “Or you, perhaps.”  
  
Dick steps in front of Tim. “Unless you want to be a little clearer in what you want, I suggest you leave Talia. You, probably as well as any of us, know the cave is covered in cameras and other security measures. Bruce is probably on his way back right now.”  
  
Her brows pinch together and after a long moment, she dips her head. “Very well. My father has taken prisoner the current Patron of Spyral. Though he seems to think he is doing me a courtesy by leaving the leadership position of Spyral open for a League member, I preferred having someone without loyalty to my father who worked _ with _ Leviathan. I want him back.”  
  
The words and request mean little to Jason. His dealings with Spyral never extended beyond the “organization that Dick worked with while playing a dead man.” The members, as well as its leadership, were little more than nameless ghosts. Apparently, Dick took out a lot of the former members too. It’s his guess whoever Talia wants so badly back from Ra’s dungeons.  
  
Dick, on the other hand, straightens up instantly. Hands at his sides clench into fists, squeezing them so hard the leather gloves squeak. Whoever it is Dick most certainly knows and knows well.  
  
“Alright. Alright, we’ll help you.” And isn’t that a rather surprising change of tune.  
  
“Dick,” Tim says quickly. “This isn’t a good idea-”  
  
“I know it’s not. If this is true Talia-”  
  
“It is,” Talia reaches into her coat. With it she pulls free a crumpled envelope, stuffed thick with papers peeking out, some dog-eared others freshly printed. She tosses it on the ground at Dick’s feet where it spills open sending letters with redacted lines, photographs, and a small plastic thumb drive across the stones. Jason skims over the letters as he drags his eyes to one of the photographs. It’s of a man, probably around his thirties, a black and white photograph. He wears a shemagh around his head and neck with three measured scars down the center of his forward. To Jason’s own amusement, the man has a frown on his face that beats Bruce.  
  
“He’s been in Nanda Parbat for over three months now. I worry that if he stays any longer his skills will be lost.”  
  
Dick, who’s been stuck staring at the photographs ever since Talia threw them down, finally looks up. “I’ll go.”  
  
“No, you cannot,” Talia says. “And neither can Mr. Drake.”  
  
Dick snarls now. “Then what’s the point of coming all the way here to show me this and say I can do nothing?”  
  
“It was not my intention. I had hoped to speak to Jason about this matter.”  
  
And if that’s not just pointing a gun right at her own forehead. Sure lethal reaction might be out of Bruce Wayne’s manual for combat training but Dick can easily work around killing someone and still make their life a living hell. Talia expects it, with how she holds herself just a little bit higher as Dick marches over to her while keeping a safe distance away. For now.  
  
“Get out.”  
  
“The reason I did not approach him while he was _ alone _ was I wanted you two here. Then you would know where he was in case something went awry.” Talia goes on. “You and I both know my father has a better understanding of the two of you better than he does Jason. He is the only one that can go undercover in Nanda Parbat without immediate exposure.”  
  
“He’s got his own case to solve.” Tim slips from the seat now wielding a sharpened batarang. “Sorry.”  
  
“Ah,” Talia slips her hand into her jacket and before Dick can move to grab her she steps back. From her coat, she removes a vial that glows a deep, vivid purple in the dark. “Yes, I know.”  
  
Tension is hardly a good enough word to describe the way the air tightens between all of them. “So what. Break into Star Labs and pin the crime on Black Mask to distract us? What did you hope this would get you? A thanks?” Tim clutches the batarang tighter. “All for Jason to work for you?”  
  
“Actually, Timothy,” and Tim shudders at the name. “As a continued show of goodwill, I took back the stolen virus for you. That way Gotham’s most immediate threat would be taken care of and Jason would be available.”  
  
Her face falls and she tightens her fingers on the vial. “I came here without ill intentions, as hard as that may seem to be. I need help and I offer you a solution to one errant problem in return. If you wish me to play a villain, as you so obviously want me to, then yes, I suppose I could threaten this over your heads. I do not want to, but if you are doubting how dire it is to me that Tiger King of Kandahar is returned to Spyral, I will be honored to show you how desperate I am.”  
  
Whether or not those words affect Dick, or Tim for that matter, Jason doesn’t know. His attachment to the man Talia and Dick know and his aversion to Ra’s are equally insignificant. Jason simply doesn’t emotional connection to whether or not they come to an agreement or force Talia out of the cave where Bruce will accuse her of coming for Damian.  
  
What makes Jason act is the simple, undeniable fact that Bruce had left a mission for him. Something that Jason was finally to be trusted with. Get the techno-organic virus back to Star Labs and out of the wrong hands. From where he’s standing, it doesn’t matter whether or not Talia is using it as a bartering chip. That vial alone is too dangerous to be left in someone’s hands than behind the steel door of a locked vault.  
  
“Okay, I’ll go,” Jason says as cool as he can manage. “When do we fly out?”


End file.
